Hero
by Lexie Jayne
Summary: He always thought it would take a lot to bring him down. He always thought the same about her, too.


**Title:** Hero

**Author:** Alexandra Bruderlin

**Rating:** PG

**Summary:** _He always thought it would take a lot to bring him done. He always thought the same about her, too. _

**Pairing: **Syl/Krit

**Promp: **He

**Disclaimer: **James Cameron owns the characters. I'm meant to be studying for my HSC.

**Author's Notes: **I'm still here! I joined fanfic100 at livejournal, and picked the X5s. Which means I have to write 100 Dark Angel fanfics about the X5s (ninety of them have prompts I have to use). If you'd live to see the master list of these 100 fics, check out my livejournal (I'm lexieb).

And I have almost finished the new chapter of PissOff2, so this is just to tide you all over. Love you all. Review, and let me know people still share the X5 love!

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He always thought it would take a lot to bring him down. He always thought the same about her, too. He'd seen her in a fight and smiled to himself that he didn't have to worry about her, because she'd walk away from anything. There was something hard in her eyes that reassured him and scared him at the same time.

They'd run their wholes lives, they'd fought their whole lives and when they left Seattle, they slowed down for awhile. There was a new slump to their shoulders; there was none of the desperation that had been there before. Take a rest, wait for the next round.

He always thought death would be something painful – a bullet wound, or some new and magnificent torture in the bowels of Manticore. He'd be on his knees, and he'd die a hero's death, with Syl somewhere safe. It'd be heartbreaking, it'd be dramatic and it would be romantic in the way that all tragedies are. And then there'd be a place that was soft white in a way that Manticore never was, and he'd be a different person.

Well, yeah, he'd be dead.

It hurt a lot more than he'd ever given it credit for.

"_X5-471!"_

"_Sir?"_

"_Never underestimate anyone - especially your enemy."_

They'd gone out for food; Friday night at a cheap Chinese restaurant, a few crumpled ten dollar bills in the pocket of his jeans, his arm tight around her. She was talking to him, her fingers laced with his. He stopped and leant down to kiss her, his hand reaching up to stroke her blonde hair.

He was thrown back against the brick wall, in the mouth of the alley, and Syl was grabbed from behind. He was annoyed, but he wasn't afraid. That's what he marvels about now. That he wasn't afraid.

They were big men, with South African accents and a malicious look about them – their eyes were hard in a way that he wasn't familiar with; the black edge, knowing that death is creeping up on you day by day. There were no second chances, there was no escaping it.

At least they could hide from it for another day.

The fight was longer than he anticipated, and he heard her pause for a second and wanted to yell at her not to pause for a second. Just to move, not to let the enemy see any weakness. There was a blur in the corner of his eye and he reached out, catching the crowbar – grabbed from the Dumpster around the corner – before it touched her.

In his head, he could see Syl ducking and twisting from the makeshift weapon. He could see the crowbar catching her just above the eye, going deeper and deeper, the pigment of her flesh starting to darken as the bone of her head gave away; as the blood began to seep out, through torn skin and broken edges. He could hear her horrible cry as she dropped to the ground, still alive enough for it to really, really hurt.

He felt his arm break with a snap that made his stomach turn. He released the crowbar and he pulled her close, the sound of red pounding in his eyes and ears from the premonition (the future or the fear?) and the shock. The snap that brought him back to real life. He's holding her tight now, because the men's black eyes are on them and they're too tired to run any longer. She's half cradling his broken arm, and she's pulled a gun from her coat.

He knows how she'll go, too. She'll go down fighting. She won't stop struggling until there's no breath left in her body. She'd rather die knowing she succeeded than live knowing she failed. It's not an indoctrination from Manticore or Zack; it runs deeper than that – its genetics and DNA and something that came with being Syl, along with loving that flowery perfume.

The bullets are flying and he fumbles for his gun, each shot reaching it's mark. He feels melancholy and he wants to be home with Syl, listening to her read from the newspaper while he showers. He wants to find her rebuilding her laptop from scratch, and pulling about the dishwasher to see if she can make it work on a timer.

Her death is kind and quick. She falls down and doesn't get back up, a scarlet stain where her heart is. He stares at her and begins to fight with a killing passion, wondering if it's for her or for himself or because he never expected it to be this scary.

The crowbar becomes his downfall, and he's glad he never saw pain in her eyes. He saw too much of it in Ben's eyes, in Tinga's eyes, in Eva's eyes. The men never felt the bullet wounds that pierced their skin, the blows that shattered their bones. But he felt everything as the crowbar met his body again and again.

He can taste blood in his mouth when he stands, and he's blind in one eye. He doesn't look back at her as he stumbled a few feet forward, spitting blood onto the pavement and giving in to the overwhelming sense of red. The pavement was cool underneath his cheek and he didn't know that something as cold as concrete would be such a relief when his body gave up on itself.

He's a cliché. There is some romance in dying, and dying together; a romance that is cliché and makes him feel sick and struggle against the blindness that has overtaken his left eye.

He's dying, Syl's dead and there weren't any last words or drama to their exit. There was fighting and doubts and lots of floating red, and many questions.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the night sky with his one good eye and contemplates moving closer to her.

He decides to give them both a bit of dignity. A hero didn't die in his girlfriend's arms because he was afraid. It was the sort of thing Ben would do and Krit never liked Ben.

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End file.
